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Suddenly he belched again. Only this time he felt his breakfast rush up hot and acidic from his belly. He threw up behind the fender of a rusted car.
“Damn, boy,” said Riot. “You dying on me here?”
Morgie sagged against the car, his face greasy with sweat.
“Whoa… hey, now…,” Riot said in a voice suddenly punctuated with concern. “Are you sick or something?”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. “I… I don’t know. Stomach’s suddenly all messed up.”
She came over and took him by the arm. “You need to sit down?”
Morgie thought about it, then slowly shook his head. “No. It’s okay. It’s passing, I think…”
“You look like death only slightly warmed over.”
“Gee, thanks.” He belched again, though not as dramatically this time. “Must be something I ate.”
They had both eaten exactly the same things, but Riot did not comment on it. Two deep vertical lines were etched between her brows.
“We can stay here for a bit, Morg. Hang out and then start fresh tomorrow.”
“No.” He began to walk toward his bike, his legs feeling like they were made of overcooked macaroni. “Let’s get out of here. We need to get to Asheville.”
Riot watched him walk to the quad. He didn’t fall, but he didn’t look all that stable. When he sat, he thumped down hard into the saddle.
“Morgie…,” she began, but he waved her off and started the engine.
“Fine, then,” she said under her breath.
They drove away, but the uneasy feelings did not fade with the town of Schulenburg. They passed through La Grange and got all the way to Denverado without seeing a single living person. They saw a few wandering zoms, but only a few. There were other places where it was clear a fight had taken place—each spot littered with those dead whose head or spine injuries either ended their undead lives or prevented them from reanimating. They found more of the strange burns on them.
In each massacre site there was plenty of ejected brass or spent shotgun shell casings, but no guns.
“How many ravagers can there be?” asked Morgie. “I mean… they can’t seriously be taking all those guns for the zoms to use, can they?”
“God, I hope not,” said Riot, looking very scared. Then she turned to Morgie and frowned. “You sure you’re okay?”
Morgie dragged a forearm across his brow and looked at the glistening sweat.
“It’s just the heat,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Totally.”
A few miles past the scene of another fight Morgie had to pull sharply off the road. He grabbed a roll of toilet paper from his pack and went scampering off behind a wrecked dump truck.
PART NINE NEW ALAMO
I do not know with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.
—ANONYMOUS
35
THE WINDOW GLASS EXPLODED INTO a storm of glittering knives. Joe Ledger hooked an arm around Gutsy and yanked her down as death filled the air above them. Gutsy felt some of the shards slice her vest and jeans, and there were tiny detonations of heat, telling her she’d been cut. No way to tell how much or how bad. And no time to care, as a pack of screaming people came pouring into the car wash.
“Kid—get back! Get into the tunnel,” cried Ledger as he shoved Gutsy away. “Grimm—hit, hit, hit!”
